


No Gods, No Masters

by TheTiniestGiant



Series: Godsend [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Honest Hearts DLC, Lonesome Road DLC, M/M, NCR | New California Republic, Old World Blues DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-04 12:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestGiant/pseuds/TheTiniestGiant
Summary: And now, the end is nearAnd so I face the final curtainMy friend, I'll say it clearI'll state my case, of which I'm certainI've lived a life that's fullI traveled each and every highwayAnd more, much more than thisI did it my way





	1. Chapter 1

Arcade didn’t want to look. Inevitably he would. If not for morbid curiosity than to face the fruitless endeavor of explaining the whys and whats of moral action. The Courier wasn’t big on morals. The Courier was more if he felt like it he would. Arcade didn’t have a problem with ethical hedonism. It was more the shooting people thing that bothered him.

The Courier really liked to shoot people he didn’t really like.

Arcade was more than a little at fault. Five hundred meters ago, the Courier dug out a sniper rifle from one of the hidden caches he stashed around the Mojave like he memorized the location of every tumbleweed. Granted, Arcade lived in a state of suspicion when it came to the Courier, but the calibrating of the scope and the loading of the rifle set off some alarms.

Sure the Courier didn’t understand algebra or common courtesy, but he handled weapons like he was born for it. Overall the Courier was an idiot, but when it came to spatial intelligence and complex problem solving via violence the kid was a goddamn prodigy.

Although he allowed himself to trail behind, Arcade eventually caught up to the Courier. He grimaced at the grim sight despite already knowing exactly what would be there. He grit his teeth and forced down the trepidation in his chest. He became used to violence and the result of it a long time ago. He supposed he should be thankful that unjustified, senseless killings still sickened him.

Three bodies laid out, over the train tracks, as if thrown back by a blast, all headless. Yards behind them their splattered brains painted the sand.

The Courier didn’t seem all that bothered, but he never was. Bounce to his step and humming a jaunty tune, he walked right up to the mess. Before he reached his destination, the last of the unit and the only one still breathing, Arcade called out.

“Courier.” Arcade meant for it to sound like a warning, but it came off as more chiding than anything. Arcade knew it wasn’t a good thing. Affection for a maniac could only go so far.

The Courier turned about halfway around to toss a wink and double finger-guns at Arcade before bounding the final few feet ahead.

Arcade either sighed or groaned. He really couldn’t tell the difference at this point. He had wanted to believe that the Courier had a reason for blowing the heads off of three of the four rangers besides “fuck the NCR. They can suck my cock.” Now that he realized the Courier left one alive, Arcade dreaded the reason.

The Courier didn’t miss. This was deliberate.

Arcade could see the man trembling as he struggled to stay up, clutching his injured arm, could see the sheen of sweat and heaving breaths as his shoulder moved. His fear was evident, his pain obvious. Like an animal, the Courier would smell it on him. 

Blood coated the ranger’s side and stained the ground beside him, the makeshift tourniquet slowing the flow, but not stopping it. Arcade’s breath caught at where the Courier placed the bullet, right in the elbow. The man would lose his arm. Arcade had no doubt. The fact the man still stood, albeit leaning heavily on the fence post, gave validity to the claims of the toughness of NCR rangers.

Arcade doubted the Courier was impressed. If only because Arcade needed a moment longer to prepare for whatever the Courier intended, he looked away. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked to the side and then back to the scene before him. For a surreal moment, it felt like it should have been night. 

When he realized, Arcade wanted to laugh. Caesar’s Legion or the NCR, the Courier didn’t care. A near perfect parallel of what he did to the frumentarii compared to what he now did to the unit of rangers could have been poetry.

It was the Courier’s voice that finally forced Arcade’s attention.

“Do you know who I am?”

Arcade rolled his eyes. Of course the Courier would ask that. The little bastard was vain as hell. He took special joy in the fear he inspired in Freeside when someone recognized him.

“Everyone fucking knows who you are,” the ranger snarled.

Yeah. He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re the sonova bitch that killed Chief Hanlon.”

“Hey now,” the Courier tsk’d. “I’ve killed a lot more impressive people than that old fuck. Like, a lot. I killed Mr. House with a 9 iron. Bet Hanlon couldn’t do that.”

“Fuck,” the ranger laughed breathlessly, “I can’t believe I’m going to die because of a little bastard with a god complex.”

“Hey, hey, I’m not God. He was much more paranoid than me.”

Arcade opened his mouth to ask, but sighed and shut it. Last time the Courier and Arcade had a discussion about God it resulted in the Courier pledging to kill the bearded man in the sky.

Even blocked by mirrored sunglasses, Arcade knew the ranger stared at the Courier in incredulity. Yeah, Arcade couldn’t believe this was his life either.

After a few awkward seconds, the Courier shrugged.

“Besides, I’m not going to kill you. Why would I kill you when I didn’t before? Do you think I missed your head?” the Courier asked as if offended.

“Pretty fucking hard to think with all the blood loss,” the ranger grit out. Then he jerked his head in Arcade’s direction.

Arcade’s stomach dropped. The time was about right. He reminded himself this was inevitable. This was his cosmic punishment for… something.

“Jesus, fuck, do something!” he said, too demanding for it to be begging.

Repressing the very familiar existential crisis he had every time he looked at the Courier, Arcade forced himself forward and reached out to the Courier. Hand on the Courier’s shoulder, he bowed his head low enough to make eye contact. The Courier avoided it, lips already in a pout. 

Before Arcade could even find the words to begin, a flash of annoyance crossed the Courier’s features and he shrugged off Arcade’s hand.

“He can’t help you,” the Courier informed the ranger, “can’t stop me and can’t save your arm.”

Arcade winced. Well, he wasn’t wrong. His forearm hung by threads. “If you’re right handed you might want to think about learning to write with your left.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Hope you don’t mind leftie on lonely nights,” the Courier said as if he was contributing to the conversation, like he was being helpful.

“Jesus Christ,” the ranger said again.

Laughing, the Courier rubbed his hands together. “Now that we got that out of the way, Arcade, you might want to take a few steps back.” He wrinkled his nose. “And maybe turn around.”

Arcade did not. Instead, Arcade found himself stepping between the Courier and the ranger. Back to the ranger, Arcade held his hands up, palms out in non threatening gesture.

“Hold on, Courier.”

The Courier didn’t seem to notice, tongue peeking out in concentration as he groped blindly in the giant pocket inside his jacket. He made a small “ah ha” sound when locating the item he searched for. It took conscious effort for Arcade not to step back when the Courier flipped open his butterfly knife.

As if there was no knife in his hand, as if he had not just murdered three people and maimed another, the Courier smiled sweetly, giving Arcade his best puppy dog eyes. Something twisted in Arcade’s stomach seeing them. He couldn’t name what, but it wasn’t the same as before, like the earnesty had faded.

“I promise I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” The Courier made a strange saluting gesture. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re not a scout in any sense.”

“Didn’t know that was a requirement.”

“You just said ‘scout’s.’ What did you think it meant?”

“I dunno. I just thought it was a phrase.”

Before Arcade could argue back, the ranger interrupted. Arcade shifted around to look at him.

“Holy shit, just shoot me dead. This isn’t worth it.” Losing will, the ranger slide down the fence post until he sat on the ground, leaning his back against it.

The Courier snorted and rolled his eyes. “Quit whining. I could done a lot worse.” He gave a short nod at Arcade and elbowed him. “Doghead. Tell him about doghead.”

The ranger began thumping the back of his head against the fence post and groaning.

Arcade side eyed the Courier. “Not sure that’s the best story right now.”

“Well if you’re not going to contribute, go stand over there.” The Courier waved vaguely in the direction of a some cacti.

Arcade took a deep breath before asking, “why?”

The Courier flipped the butterfly knife around in his hand with expert finesse. “Gonna give our friend a hand.” He smirked. “Or take one away.”

If the ranger heard, he gave no reaction, simply continuing to bang his head against the post. Arcade, however, shoved into the Courier’s space, blocking the Courier’s view. Anger fueling him, Arcade opened his mouth to berate the Courier, only to have the tip of the knife touch his throat. The touch was delicate, no pressure besides the awareness, like an actual butterfly landed on him.

Long ago, Arcade admitted to himself the Courier would never hurt him, not seriously. Even now, he knew it was true, but when the Courier spoke, an unfamiliar and disturbing blankness in his eyes, Arcade felt a drop of fear roll down his spine.

“Arcade, I love you, but this is non-negotiable. I’m lobbing this dude’s arm off and if you try to stop me I’m gonna have to beat the shit out of you.”

A beat of tense silence passed before it struck Arcade.

“What?”

The Courier made to reiterate, but Arcade shook his head like the physical action could clear it and interrupted him.

“Do you--did you just.” Unintentionally his voice faded like he couldn’t take in air. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Did you just use the word ‘non-negotiable’ in correct context?”

The Courier removed the knife, letting his arm fall to his side and tilted his head, looking at Arcade curiously. A moment passed before a flash of understanding went through his eyes, like for the first time he knew something Arcade didn’t know.

It terrified Arcade.

Smirking, he shrugged. “If you say so. You’d know better than me, right?”

It was like opening Pandora’s box, but Arcade couldn’t stop himself. “And formed a sensible complex sentence containing a cohesive cause and effect relationship.

Now the Courier looked away, brow furrowed as if uncomfortable. He shrugged again. “I read it on a bobblehead once.”

“The only things you read are Grognak the Barbarian comics, only you don’t actually read them. You just look at the pictures.”

The Courier winced as if he hadn’t thought Arcade would notice. Forcing an unfamiliar impassive expression, the Courier shrugged again. “Yeah, well now I do.

Arcade looked around at the empty expanse, at the miles he traveled, at the bodies the Courier just dropped, down the train tracks to what had been deathclaw territory until the Courier cleared it out. No answer.

“Just like that.”

“Spendin’ a lot of time with Ulysses, you know.”

The laugh was unintentional. Arcade barely realized it was his. “What am I supposed to do, Courier? Just let you do this?”

“Preferably.”

Arcade let out another dry laugh, louder. “ _Preferably._ ” Swallowing down his intense urge to interrogate the Courier further, to dig out whatever impossible explanation for the surreal moment, Arcade instead focused at the most urgent matter. “Let me give him Med-X.”

“No.”

“ _No?_ ”

“No.” The Courier waved away the suggestion casually. Tipping back his head, he let out a hum of consideration, as if searching for the means to explain himself. He nodded to himself and looked back to Arcade. “Okay, so it’s like this: I want him to feel it. I want him to remember. I want him to hear his own screams and wake up screaming. I want the NCR to hear, to know what I did.”

Arcade stumbled when he backed away, tripping over a rock unseen, lacking the grace the Courier effortlessly embodied.

Arcade could have gone back to what he first believed, the that Courier was cruel or insane. He wanted to, it would have been easier. He could have maybe, if he had not already dug in too deep. Arcade was trapped in the sunk-cost fallacy. He knew, he _knew_ there was something wrong with the Courier.

When the Courier followed him a step, panic setting in on his features, Arcade forced himself to still. He clenched his hands into fists to hide the shaking, the anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled, low and dangerous, “what the fuck are you doing?” For once he truly meant the questions instead of bursts of frustration with his idiotic charge.

At some point the knife had vanished, disappeared back into his jacket. The Courier now held his hands in a gesture of pacification, mimicking what Arcade had done before.

“It’s not like that, Arcade,” the Courier held his eyes, all the earnesty lacking before now there. He looked frightened, scared at the prospect of Arcade’s rejection. “It’s not because I want to hurt him. I just--” Screwing up his face, the Courier let out a long whine, “Arcaaaaaade.”

The familiarity of his whining jerked Arcade out of his horror enough to snap at the Courier. “Don’t you ‘Arcade’ me. I don’t know how or when, what drug you took or what experiment was performed, but right now you comprehend the consequences of your actions. You recognize and are responding to my emotions you never would have noticed before. You are deliberately choosing to cause unnecessary suffering. You planned this--”

Arcade cut himself of at the sudden revelation. “Holy hell, you plan things now.”

Inexplicably, relief washed over the Courier’s features. “Yes, exactly. It’s a plan. Nothing personal,” the Courier reassured him. “I just need something heinous enough the NCR will jump at the chance to come at me.”

“ _Heinous?_ ”

“Yeah, I’m trying to start a war. Legion wants one, NCR wants one, I’ll give ‘em one.”

“ _Why?_ ”

The Courier laughed, quiet and fond. He smiled a half smile at Arcade as he shrugged. 

“Beats roulette.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrets, I've had a few  
> But then again, too few to mention  
> I did what I had to do  
> And saw it through without exemption
> 
> I planned each charted course  
> Each careful step along the byway  
> And more, much more than this  
> I did it my way

“Hey, Ulysses.”

Ulysses raised his eyes from the Old World encyclopedia to find the Courier standing a few yards off, well out of reach. The glow of a lightbulb two hundred years past its time flickered behind him, forming a halo around his silhouette.

Ulysses closed his book.

Recently, Ulysses noticed a change in the Courier. It had been small at first, reproachful looks and shuffling a few inches off, chewing at his lips and nails with an anxiety he denied, truly lied. Now, after nearly a month since he last saw the Courier, it culminated.

By nature, the Courier craved physical contact. Even now Ulysses could see the tension in him, holding himself back from going to Ulysses, hands jammed in pockets and shifting from foot to foot. Before the Courier would have barrelled into him, tugging at him for attention, a pat on the head at least if Ulysses would not let him cling. Like a puppy that could not contain its joy for its family, the Courier could not contain his enthusiasm upon seeing Ulysses. It was both endearing and irritating in equal measure.

Now the Courier barely looked at him. Rather, the Courier barely met his eyes. Those doe eyes, always so expressive looked at Ulysses as if he held the answers to the universe. As if the Courier admired him even if he did not understand most of what Ulysses said. Now the Courier didn’t look at him so much as watched him. Feigning disinterest, the Courier would follow his movements from the corner of his eye, rarely meeting Ulysses’s gaze dead on.

Hiding.

“Moroni,” Ulysses returned the greeting.

A faint smile flickered across the Courier’s face as he ducked his head. He rubbed the back of his neck as if embarrassed. “I hate when you call me that.”

Ulysses stood and walked down the few steps, leaving behind the pile of scavenged books on the platform where missiles once slept.

“It is your name.”

“Yeah.” The Courier drifted a few steps closer, but stopped. He stuck his hand back in his pocket and looked up towards the orange sky so far above, revealed by the open silo.

The tame reaction instead of indignant bristling at the use of his given name only increased Ulysses’s unease.

“Moroni,” Ulysses deliberately repeated the name, “come here.”

For the first time since he appeared, the Courier glanced up to meet Ulysses’s eyes. They held each others’ stare, the moment tense between them. Very suddenly, Ulysses knew.

Intelligence.

Guilt.

Yet.

The blind trust the Courier placed in him, the unearned faith that Ulysses no longer meant him harm was there the same as before. Tentatively at first, the Courier sidled towards him. The closer he came, the more certain his steps grew until he stood before Ulysses, eyes on the ground with a shame he would not have had the mind to know before.

“Courier, what have you done?”

A small bitter laugh escaped him, the sound so unfamiliar from the Courier. Although he spoke words he had said to Ulysses months before, they could have been from a different person. 

Strained, choked up, full of emotion complex enough the Courier should have lacked capacity to comprehend, he said, “Ulysses, I think I fucked up.”

Without further prompting, the Courier leaned forward, resting his head against Ulysses’s chest. Even with his newfound sense of shame, the Courier needed the contact he refused himself moments ago. He still trusted Ulysses. Whatever happened, whatever changed the Courier, it left that behind.

Ulysses placed his hand on the Courier’s head, through the tangled locks of sweat and sand, feeling the bumps of scars long healed. Tokens left by the Think Tank so the Courier would never forget.

For all the damage the Courier had taken and dealt, he had still faced the world with an inexorable optimism, as if nothing the world had could harm him. As if he believed himself untouchable, the Courier never shied, never doubted, never saw another path but the first he thought.

Now, the Courier’s shoulders slumped and his head hung. The Courier changed. Ulysses recognized what he saw so often in himself. What he once thought the Courier possessed, he now truly obtained. What a terrible burden.

“What have you done?” Ulysses asked again, quieter, but more insistent. 

“I wanted to understand.” His body shook with what could have been a laugh or a sob, but sounded tortured despite how small it was. “So stupid. I was so stupid.”

What had been a note of curious concern, something so small from weeks ago, had grown wicked, spreading through Ulysses’s chest. So long ago, what could have been lifetimes, Ulysses condemned the Courier for his irresponsible actions as if he had the capabilities to comprehend the consequences. In this present that they created together, for the first time, the Courier could comprehend. 

Ulysses always underestimated the Courier. He dismissed the Courier’s good, his lack of malice to his idiocy. He was not evil because he had not the awareness to be so.

Now, in this present time, this one Ulysses drove them to, the Courier shook with guilt for actions he had not the mind to prevent. Now, Ulysses cursed himself. He cursed himself for his idle thoughts, his tempting of fate, that if the Courier had the intelligence he could be of use, could benefit the world.

The Courier finally obtained what Ulysses once attributed to him, and more than once lamented his lack of. The irony of it, the twist in fate, the Courier achieved enlightenment only for Ulysses to selfishly regret it. Seeing the Courier like this, feeling the Courier tremble under his hand, and Ulysses first instinct was to sacrifice the potential good if only to take away what now pained the Courier so.

“God. I wanted-- I thought.” This time it was undeniably a laugh for as choked as it was. The Courier’s hand clung to Ulysses’s shirt, twisting in the fabric. “I don’t know if I wanted to impress you or defy you, but Ulysses, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Ulysses slid his hand to the back of the Courier’s neck and squeezed gently. Lifting his head, the Courier met Ulysses’s gaze with naked emotion, questions and pleas. Not long ago, not long ago at all Ulysses could have answered them. He could have used simple words and simple concepts because the Courier would have wanted no more than that.

There were no more simple answers. There would be no resolution for what plagued him now.

The Courier swallowed thickly and lowered his eyes once more. Although quieter, his voice came unexpectedly steady when he spoke. “Does it feel like this all the time?”

Ulysses never lied to the Courier. He had not then and he would not now.

“Yes.”

The Courier laughed, the sound born of dark humor and acceptance, as genuine as any lighthearted laugh only months before. Shrugging off Ulysses’s hand, he stepped back and shook his head.

“After Dr. Usanagi installed the Logic Co-processor, it seemed like such a good idea, ya know? I could rationalize the fear away. I went back to the Big Empty. What a great idea at the time. So easy. An implant, some learning, some drugs, some experiments. I--” 

He cut himself off and clenched his jaw, anger flashing across his features. Then flicked his eyes to Ulysses, startlingly sharp. Ulysses said nothing. For the first time the understanding between them came easy, neither having to compensate for the other. With memories of Ulysses and context to put them in, this changed Courier, this intelligent Courier read Ulysses as before, but now could interpret him. The Courier saw Ulysses’s understanding. There was no need to elaborate.

“It won’t stop,” the Courier grit his teeth and then spat, “the pressure, the thinking. The more I do it the worse it gets.”

He shoved his hands through his hair, messing it as he released a growl of frustration. Perhaps it was wrong Ulysses took comfort in the familiar idiosyncrasy.

“Fuck,” he snapped. Hollowly, he laughed. “And now Arcade, fuck. What he must think of me.”

It was too tempting now, to press the smallest bit. “What Arcade thinks of you is dependent on your actions.”

The Courier let out a snort. “What Arcade thinks of me is dependent on how he interprets the actions he obverses. I’m not going to put on a show to keep him happy. If he hates me by the end, he hates me. I’m not compromising on this.”

At the last word, the Courier snapped his eyes to Ulysses, wide with much more shock than Ulysses felt. No, Ulysses felt affection. Although still pitying, still empathetic, Ulysses held a selfish pride for something he had no hand in.

“I just argued with you.”

“You retorted because you understood, not lashing out because you didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ.” The words came out breathless. Then a familiar cheeky smirk crossed his face. “I know who Jesus Christ is. Even know what Mormons are.”

“Moroni.”

Quietly, the Courier confirmed, “Moroni.”

“You now must realize--”

“He’s pretty much insane, yeah.” The Courier laughed again, not of delight even if humorous. “Now that I know what irony is, I appreciate the situation even if I hate it.” The Courier’s smirk turned sharp as a knife. “Want to know the worst part?”

“You still love him.”

Of course he would. The Courier still cared what Arcade thought. The Courier still came to Ulysses for advice and comfort. The Courier still loved Joshua Graham.

“Yeah,” the Courier sighed, “I still love him.”

“Does he know?”

As if the idea offended him, the Courier made a noise of disgust. “No. What am I supposed to say to him?” Lowering his head again, he rubbed the back of his neck only yank his hand away and back into his pocket like he hadn’t realized what he had been doing. “He’s going to try to kill me, isn’t he?”

“If you challenge his delusion, yes.”

“Like I did yours?” Unable to repress his smile, The Courier ran his tongue over his bottom lip in anticipation of Ulysses’s answer to his taunt.

The Courier teased him.

“Is that what you did?” Ulysses murmured.

The Courier huffed with disappointment and let out a long, over-dramatic sigh. So familiar. The Courier changed. Ulysses told the Courier men like Joshua Graham did not change. Humans did not change. The Courier changed. By artificial means yes, but the Courier would adapt as he always did.

Offhandedly, enough that Ulysses knew it was intentional, same as the Courier might have before simply for his attention, the Courier spoke up.

“You know, before, I thought I could do anything.”

Because the Courier wanted him to, Ulysses asked, “and now?”

The Courier raised his chin, the slight motion seemingly shifting his entire body until every line radiated the arrogance Ulysses knew so well.

“Now I know I can.”

The Courier changed, yes, but he was still the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \here u go. lemme know how that went


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew  
> When I bit off more than I could chew.  
> But through it all, when there was doubt  
> I ate it up and spit it out  
> I faced it all and I stood tall  
> And did it my way
> 
> I've loved, I've laughed and cried  
> I've had my fill, my share of losing  
> And now, as tears subside  
> I find it all so amusing

Like a sign from God, a dry hot wind rushed through Zion Valley and Joshua knew the Courier had returned. Whatever doubt or apprehension that might have faded since their last encounter rose once more. The Courier’s return came sooner than the last despite the terms in which he departed.

The sun scorched down on them as if in warning, but it was one Joshua ignored. Follows-Chalk was the one to alert Joshua of the Courier’s appearance at the Dead Horse camp. Although better hidden than the Courier could have managed, trepidation clung to Follows-Chalk in both his form and seeping in his words.

“The Courier is here. I-I thought I should tell you before you see him. I think something is wrong.”

Joshua snapped the clip back in place and stood. He tucked his .45 in the waistband of his jeans, behind his back. Follows-Chalk didn’t wait for him. There had been a moment when Joshua assumed the Courier would have come to him. After the first time they fought, or rather Joshua struck him, the Courier returned, crawled into bed with Joshua without asking.

Last time, the Courier traded blows. Not truly, no, the Courier constantly faltering, regretting attacking before he even made contact. It was not a fight Joshua was proud to have won. Unlike the first time, the Courier knew the source of Joshua’s displeasure. The Courier simply did not think he was wrong in actions.

Only a short month ago the Courier left spitting curses and blood. Only a short month ago Joshua realized just how little he had changed, how weak he was to his nature. During that month, countless times Joshua thought to go after the Courier, to force him to understand.

Understanding was not something the Courier excelled in. Joshua knew he would not be demanding understanding, but obedience. 

The Courier returned. It was time Joshua faced him. 

Walking from the dark of Angel’s Cave into the blinding sun caused Joshua to turn his eyes away until his vision cleared. Once the world came into focus, his gaze naturally fell to the Courier. Hands jammed in his pockets and hair messed like someone had their hands in it, the Courier stood with an open arrogance, as if free from worry or burden. So familiar, it was the same as when they first met. After spending so much time together, the Courier lost his nonchalance, too focused on Joshua, being near him and pleasing him.

Instantly, every irrational fear Joshua had once thought himself above seized him. For the Courier, someone who did not understand the purpose of hiding emotion let alone possessing the capability to do so, it was a blatant display of detachment.

Whether Follows-Chalk knew it or not, he had understated the severity of the situation.

As before, either instinct or supernatural sense, the Courier shifted when he felt Joshua’s attention on him. Head swiveling around, he met Joshua’s eyes. Joshua had not realized he stopped walking until the Courier began walking towards him. He strolled. 

Once close enough he had to tip his head back to look up at Joshua, the Courier jerked his head towards a ravine that led to a dead end pool of water. He said, “let’s go.”

Harsher than he meant, than he should have, Joshua growled, “Courier.”

Joshua hadn’t realized how impassive the Courier’s eyes had been until they flashed with anger. Quieter than before, the Courier repeated, “let’s go.”

Without waiting for Joshua’s consent, the Courier moved past him and walked ahead. With no other option, Joshua followed. He kept a distance between them. Before the Courier would never be more than a couple of feet apart from Joshua, always doubling back to him and circling. Now the Courier didn’t even glance to him.

Joshua studied the Courier’s form. Narrow shoulders back with confidence, head tilting back and forth as if moving to a song Joshua could not hear, the Courier walked with the same certainty he always did. It should have not caused such dread in Joshua.

Only when they reached the opening into the pool at the end of the winding ravine did the Courier slow. Picking out a place on the skinny shore, the Courier leaned his back against the crag. He looked up to the the thin blue line of the sky between the cliffs and squinted. When Joshua finally arrived in front of him, he hung his head and sighed.

This time Joshua spoke carefully, though as rough as always. “Courier.”

“Joshua,” the Courier sighed again, but then he met Joshua’s eyes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand why you were so angry. We didn’t really talk about it, so I didn’t understand there was an expectation of monogamy.” He let out a small laugh. “Which is a bit funny considering you’re a fucking Mormon.”

The Courier looked at him, eyes warm with affection, but such sadness it sickened Joshua. He almost didn’t hear the Courier’s words. Once the sounds registered, Joshua struggled to understand. The words were simple, and the sentence constructed to be easily interpreted, the meaning behind it obvious. What Joshua could not reconcile was that it came from the Courier.

“Still doesn’t excuse you for hitting me, you fucking asshole. I mean, shit, a lot of people hit me, but didn’t think you’d be one of them.” He let out another laugh, this one not amused at all.

With the speed Joshua had witnessed the Courier turn on their enemies so many times, the Courier shot forward. In milliseconds, before Joshua could realize, could connect the concept of the Courier with that of a threat, the Courier came at him. Joshua braced himself, but instead of a tackle, the Courier caught him by the front of the shirt and slung him around, slamming him into the wall of rock.

One hand splayed on Joshua’s chest, holding him in place. Joshua’s right hand wrapped tight around the wrist, squeezing enough to bruise. The Courier’s other hand held Joshua’s own gun, stolen from him in the same blur of motions that brought them to that point. Joshua’s left hand hung in the air.

The Courier had jammed the barrel of the .45 against the underside of Joshua’s chin, forcing his head back. For an eternity trapped in a moment, they stood frozen. In that moment, Joshua saw it all. The Courier’s eyes shone with the spark of creation and destruction that Joshua witnessed the first time they met. This time he saw both the Courier’s anger and his love. 

He saw, but he still didn’t understand.

Softly, the Courier said, “do you remember when you pressed this gun to my forehead? You pistol whipped me, threw me to the ground, put a gun to my head, and demanded to know why you shouldn’t kill me.”

Joshua remembered.

“Answer me,” the Courier demanded between clenched teeth, voice quiet and torn, “do you remember?”

“Yes.”

Tension slipped from the Courier. He eased the pressure off of Joshua, leaning back the slightest bit. Joshua released his wrist and lowered both of his hands. 

“Why didn’t you?”

For the briefest second Joshua considered if he could take advantage of the Courier, disarm him and create a distance between them. He knew he wouldn’t, not after how the distance disturbed him before, but as if the Courier heard the thought himself, he tensed once more.

“I could not kill you. Even then I loved you.”

The Courier lowered the gun to his side and fell forward, hiding his face against Joshua’s throat. His other hand came around to cling to the back of his shirt. A soft, nearly inaudible whimper escaped him.

Joshua could feel the vibrations of his voice as the Courier spoke.

“I trusted you. I trusted you so much. I thought if you were going to kill me I must have done something to deserve it.” He drew a long breath before pulling back and looking up to Joshua, those dark eyes filled with hurt. “But you didn’t trust me. You never trusted me.”

Before Joshua took the time to think about it, before he realized how he disgraced His holy words by using them as an excuse, he said, “‘Put no trust in a neighbor. Have no confidence in a friend. Guard the doors of your mouth--

The Courier cut him off, “‘from her who lies in your arms’ Micah 7:5. Don’t you fucking quote your Scripture at me you sonova bitch,” he snapped, shoving the gun into Joshua’s chest for emphasis rather than a threat. “Don’t you fucking twist it. You trust Daniel. You trust the Dead Horses. You just don’t trust me.”

“Why should I, Courier?” Joshua growled. 

At his harsh tone, the Courier flinched and shrunk back, gun falling away. Emboldened, Joshua followed him, closing the space between them, making it even smaller than it had been before. Without looking, he grabbed the Courier’s wrist, digging his fingers in. He yanked the Courier forward, the thought of the weapon of no matter to him. 

Joshua had not trusted the Courier then. Perhaps he did not trust the Courier now, this person so different in mind, but not in soul or action. Joshua knew he meant no harm.

Their heads close, a breath apart, Joshua said, “Who are you, Courier, that you come and quote the Lord, my God’s Words? Who are you to speak as if you know my Lord when you know not yourself?”

“Don’t say that, Joshua,” the Courier said, quiet and doleful, “don’t say it like that. I didn’t have a self then. I was just for you.”

“You were,” Joshua agreed.

The Courier raised his head, eyes wide and his lips parted just the slightest as he drew a sharp breath. Such hope in his eyes, such vulnerability, Joshua knew the Courier would forgive him, would forgive anything, allow anything if Joshua wanted it so.

In that moment, Joshua saw two paths lying before him. He knew which he must take. If the Courier followed, so be it.

“You were God sent. In our time of need, the Lord provided.”

“Fuck, Joshua. Is that all you think of me?” The Courier’s laugh broke from him. He bowed his head, forced his hand through the tangled knots of his hair before jerking his head up to look at Joshua, eyes wide and pleading. “Did you ever want me? Or just what I could do?”

Maybe cruelly, Joshua said, “You are a gift bestowed by the Lord and it would have been a sin to waste you. What does it matter to you now? It never did before.”

“I don’t know.” The Courier’s face twisted in a snarl, but his voice came out as if it pained him. “I loved you so much. I--I still do. So much, I would have given you everything.”

“It means so much to you, to be your own instead that of the Lord’s?”

Perhaps it was wrong of him, but Joshua reached for the Courier. He laid his palm over the Courier’s throat and ran his thumb along his jaw. Eyes fluttering shut, the Courier leaned into Joshua’s touch. Dipping his head, he raised his own hand to hold Joshua’s and direct him to cup his cheek. The Courier nuzzled his palm, kissed it, before pulling away.

“I can’t go back to how I was before. No matter how much I might have wanted to. No matter how much I want you. I’ve put events in motion I cannot abandon now, not for you, not for myself. What happens now is not up to me.” For all the Courier laughed, none of it was happy. Nothing in him spoke of the joy for life he once embodied. “There are no gods in New Vegas.”

_Might have._

"You would not return to me. You do not want to.” Joshua hadn’t meant for it to sound like an accusation. 

When the Courier spoke, a shiver ran through him, as if the Lord sent the words through his mouth. “‘For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.’” 

Tipping his head, back he exposed his throat to Joshua, and let out a hum that curled into the quietest moan.

Joshua knew this Courier was no work of God. 

“It would be a sin to waste His gift.” The Courier looked down, to the gun in his hand. He fiddled with it as if a toy instead of an instrument of death. When he looked to Joshua, eyes that should have shown everything were empty, nothing but abyss looked back at him. “You should have killed me.”

“I still can.” Joshua didn’t know if he offered it as a mercy, to the tortured ruined pitiful creature before him, ragged with knowledge he never should have touched. “Give me my gun.”

Perhaps the urge to end the misery of the Courier was born from spite. Maybe it was the will of the Lord or Joshua’s own weakness, this vindictiveness he could not shake. For all the times Joshua chased the Courier away through his own rash actions, he never felt this hate, cutting through him hot and jagged, at the idea the Courier was no longer his.

“You can’t kill me,” the Courier laughed as though he truly believed what he said. “That day, you could have killed me. Anytime before right now, you could have killed me, but now?” 

The Courier smiled so sweet it pained Joshua to see it. He raised the gun once more to press directly over Joshua's heart. Eyes lit with mischief Joshua once found endearing. The Courier cocked his head to the side and dabbed his lip with his tongue. 

“Now, I would take your hand before you could touch your gun. Then, I would shoot one knee, then the other, and I would stop to think. I would think, Joshua. You could never know what it’s like, to think nothing and then to think everything.”

Joshua’s fingers itched. It was as though static crackled over his skin, lit his nerves in ways he had not felt in months, years, paining him so. Voice low and venomous, Joshua asked, “what do you think, Courier? What is it you would think?”

“I think Ulysses’s was right. I think men like you don’t change. I think--right now?--That if I gave a wide enough opening you would attack me. I think no matter what you tell yourself, what you’ve convinced yourself, you are the same as before. I don’t think there’s salvation for you, Joshua.”

How the Courier changed from a creature who once stood beside him to the person who now stood before him, Joshua did not know. Joshua did not know what occured to give him intelligence, to teach him right and wrong. The Courier’s words only spoke of who.

“Do you see me as your great evil and you the righteous? Do you think leaving Zion Valley will free you from me?”

The Courier dug the gun a little harder into Joshua’s chest. 

“Stay away from me, Joshua. If you come to New Vegas, my Vegas, I’ll kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't find th bible verse I wanted for this so not exactly how I intended, but it will do


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To think I did all that  
> And may I say, not in a shy way  
> Oh no, no, not me  
> I did it my way
> 
> For what is man, what has he got?  
> If not himself, then he has naught  
> To say the things he truly feels  
> And not the words of one who kneels  
> The record shows I took the blows  
> And did it my way
> 
> And did it my way

The King figured it would only be a matter of time. From the moment that little maniac walked through his door, the King knew times would be a changing. And man, did that change come. Lot of bodies hit the floor, first Benny, then that ridiculous man in a suit the NCR called an ambassador. The King had to admit, the death of Mr. House threw even him for a loop, almost a much as the militarization of the Securitrons. 

While he had only his gut to go on, the King had suspected the Courier had higher aims that riddling Freeside with bullet holes. About a three days ago he showed up, dropped off Rex for a visit, and vanished. Less than twenty four hours later, Kimball was assassinated, the second battle of Hoover Dam was won, and the Fort was taken over by some old folk in power armor, a sharpshooting ghoul, and Securitrons, all on the Courier’s orders.

If the King didn’t know any better, he’d say the kid planned it. Alright, maybe the kid did. Without House in the picture, the NCR withdrawing, and Caesar’s head on pike in front of the Lucky 38, some punk that crawled out of grave in Goodsprings was the new superpower of New Vegas. Those chumps in the Strip were tripping over themselves to cozy up to the guy they tossed out for cleaning them out.

The Courier was good at that, being lucky when the chips were down.

Through the closed door came a laugh, bright and happy. The Courier laughed like he didn’t have a care in the world. The sound had Rex on alert, raising his head to stare at the door. Another laugh with muffled words to follow had Rex scrambling up.

The King signalled to his student to stop his show, waved off the girls, and sent them both from the room. They looked back with questions, but followed his directions. Whatever went down, he didn’t want them involved. Not to call the Courier unstable, but the kid was a wildcard.

The Courier breezed in a moment later, smirk on his face and swagger in his step. Rex bolted towards the Courier, a hundred plus pounds of dog and steel about to slam into him. The Courier let out a sharp whistle. Rex skidded to stop and dropped to his haunches, inches in front of him. Ears perked up, Rex sat at attention, barely restraining himself when the Courier reached to pet him. After a few ear scratches, the Courier looked up from the dog, to the King.

His smirk widened.

With Rex trotting after, the Courier sauntered his way over to the King’s table. Without asking or invitation, he dragged out a chair and tossed himself down. Leaning back, he hooked his elbow over the back of the chair and cocked his head to the side. He grinned.

The King shook his head, but couldn’t help his small smile back. “Well, well, if it isn’t the cock of the roost.”

Rex whined for attention, but went ignored. Sighing heavily, the dog rested his head on the Courier’s lap and looked up at him with adoring eyes. Absentmindedly, the Courier pet him.

“You’re not the first to call me a cock today.”

“Doubt I’ll be the last.”

The Courier didn’t bother to hide his laughter. “Throw one guy off a damn and suddenly I’m the asshole.”

“Might be something more than that.”

“Can’t imagine what.” The Courier scratched his jaw and then shrugged. “Maybe I need some help with my image. Think the Garrett Twins still up for it?”

“Son, I don’t think there’s anyone who can help your reputation at this point.”

The Courier tsk’d. “So negative. Harshin’ my vibe.”

“Don’t mean to muck up your mellow, but a lot of people got a lot of questions.”

The Courier’s smile faded. Silently, he studied the King. Normally warm and expressive, he now watched the King with eyes chillingly placid. The King held his stare, face as grim as the Courier’s.

Quietly, the King said, “I’m one of the those people.”

The Courier narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. “Maybe you should start asking questions if you want answers, yeah?”

“NCR is out.”

“If they want to be.”

“Leaving a void.”

“Not one too big to fill.”

“You’re going to fill it?”

The Courier shrugged. “Unless you want to.”

Well, that gave the King a little bit of pause. “Didn’t expect that.”

The Courier straightened up in his seat. “What the fuck did you expect?”

“A consolidation of power.”

“Fuck you,” the Courier snapped, pretense of causal gone. “You thought I was going to muscle you out?”

“I thought you were here to kill me.”

“Jesus Christ. Fuck you,” the Courier repeated. He shook his head as if to shake the notion of betrayal out and then looked back at the King to glare. “Oh, fuck you. You’re my brother. You think that little of me?”

“Cut me some slack, kid. You’re not the most stable guy around.”

The Courier scoffed and looked away before admitting, “you have a point.” He glanced back to glare again. Then, like the indignation was all an act, and for all the King knew it was, a slow smirk grew on his face. “Besides, if I off’d you, who’s left to keep an eye on the Strip while I’m gone?”

“There’s a line out the door of people who’d like that job and I’m not in it.”

“The Kings get a free pass to the Strip, in and out. They collect dues from the the families and get Securiton escort while doing it.”

The King made a noise of disgust. “I’m not your lackey for some small slice.”

“You misunderstand. I’m not looking for a flunky.”

“Maybe you should clarify before I throw you out on your ass.”

“Pretty ballsy for a guy who thought I was here to kill him a minute ago,” the Courier smirked. When the King only responded with a raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes and sighed. “It’s not a slice, it’s the whole fucking pie. It’s still my Strip, you just get run of it. You keep every cap.”

After the past three days, the Courier held all the cards. The King knew exactly what firepower the Courier had. If he could crush the NCR occupation, freeside would be little more than a can to kick.

There was no point in bluffing. “What do you get out of it?” 

“Keep the kiddies on their toes. I might be awhile and I don’t want them getting cocky. So yeah, I’m using you, but you can use me too.” 

It shouldn’t be that easy. “What’s your offer?”

“Don’t start a war, leave Michael Angelo alone unless he needs help, and don’t touch my casino.” The Courier paused, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. When he smiled it looked as tired as it was sly. “Not to tell you what do, but if the families get it in their head to start upcharing on food to Freeside, I don’t mind a little murder.”

“Sonova a bitch!” The King slammed his hand on the table and leaned forward. “What’s your angle?”

At the aggressive tone, Rex growled low in his throat. The traitor. The Courier rubbed his head and made a shushing sound before responding, himself nonplussed.

“I’m not about to start a democracy with those bastards, but I’m not trying to impose my will. This being a ruling power shit is too much goddamn work. Still, we both know what will happen if I leave those pricks to their own devices.”

The King eased back in his seat and stared.

“Well?”

“Didn’t know you knew what a democracy was.”

The Courier’s earnest smile appeared. “Yeah, read it in an Old World encyclopedia couple of weeks ago.”

“Didn’t know you read.”

“Shit, me neither.”

Looking away, the King let out a long breath. With more patience than the King thought he possessed, the Courier waited. When he finally looked back to the Courier, the kid straightened up, wiggling a bit in anticipation.

“What makes you think any of this is going to go down how you see it?”

The Courier grinned, wide and predatory. 

“Call me ‘emperor,’ King, because this is my town, and it’s going to go down however the fuck I want it too”

All things considered, it was fair enough.

=

Years had passed since Ulysses witnessed a storm. Not the storms of the Divide, grit, sand, and radiation, fraught of hate and ghosts, but a storm of rain. Years, nearly a decade, had gone by before Ulysses realized the only thunder he would hear was the pound of his own heart and boom of bombs.

Although he still walked the Divided, existed in the chasm of history’s folly, Ulysses felt as if a storm came upon him. He knew it was not true, the feeling of it psychosomatic. He knew this storm he saw in his mind’s eye was no weather system, but originating from another force of nature. The world seemed to hold its breath as it waited for the coming storm, pressure rising, a humidity that should not exist in such a dead arid land clinging to Ulysses’s skin, and static crackling in his ears.

_“It’ll be a bit before I come back.”_

The storm was created by the Courier. Over time, at first by chance, born in chaos and then falling into place as if by design, Moroni drew together forces no other could grasp. Childlike and stupid, Moroni grabbed at whatever caught his attention, taking what he wanted because he could, because there was no one who could convince him not to.

Since the trauma of awareness enlightened him, Moroni still took what he wanted, but with a finesse he had not possessed before. Moroni reached beyond what others could only dream off. New Vegas watched him, on the edge of their seat as he conducted a show he composed. They feared the finale as much as they madly desired to see it.

Ulysses watched him as well. Or rather, Ulysses listened. Ulysses answered.

_“You know where I holed up, the general’s office?”_

_“Yes, I know.”_

_“If…” He laughed, strained and awkward. “If you need anything while I’m gone, dunno what you could need, it’s there.”_

Without thought, as if magnetically drawn, Ulysses walked the dangling steps of the wrecked silo. Although the silo had been sealed, the howling of the wind far above could be heard, echoing down. Ulysses walked from across the platform, through the remains of sentry bots and turrets to terminal controlling the door’s lock.

Ulysses typed in the names of Moroni's long dead brothers one by one until the passcode was accepted. He disabled one mine, and then another, the explosives more a gesture than defense. No one came through the front door of the office except Moroni and now Ulysses. They jammed the back door together after Moroni rigged explosives down the tunnel. 

The Marked Men feared him more than Ulysses now, but Moroni insisted. When Ulysses asked what he was so intent on protecting, he made a noise of indignation and looked away to glare at the ground. For all that had changed, Moroni still could not lie.

Ulysses allowed him his secret. The world had already taken so much from him, Ulysses could not ask for more.

On the desk, too innocent, too obvious to be careless, laid a holotape in pristine condition. Beside it, coated with dirt, cracked and chipped, seven holotapes sat stacked neatly.

His journals.

Moroni had saved them. Of course he had. For one who saw no value in dwelling, Moroni still clung to the past in little ways. No, Moroni clung to people, to those gone from him, to those who left him behind, to those he feared losing. The same as he kept Joshua Graham’s Scripture tucked in his duffel bag, Moroni kept Ulysses’s logs.

Ulysses ran his thumb over the holotape at the top of the pile. He took more care than he had when they were in his possession, when Ulysses recorded them out of some misguided attempt to order the churning memories of guilt and anger in his head. Ulysses had abandoned them, scattered over the Divide, thought them useless. He only found value in them once Moroni collected them. He only found value in them once Moroni did. 

He relinquished ownership the moment Moroni said he found them, once Moroni said he listened. Back then Moroni demanded answers, stubborn and childish, acting entitled to Ulysses’s thoughts as he did with everything else.

Cleaned as they could be and ordered chronologically with his final message at the bottom, Ulysses had no doubt Moroni listened to them again. Now with the capacity to understand, to infer, Moroni would search for insight to foster his irrational fascination with Ulysses.

That had not changed.

But it was the past. His past, one he would not forget, but long gone. He walked forward. Crawled forward. He had no choice. Instead, he looked to the single holotape, clean and asking for attention simply by existing, simply by being placed there by Moroni.

Being left for him.

“Motherfucker,” Moroni breathed.

Ulysses raised his head, glancing over his shoulder to where Moroni stood in the doorway, eyes wide, and tense like he might run.

“Motherfucker,” he repeated, before letting out a strained laugh and shoving his hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you’d come looking so soon.”

“You stole nearly every book.”

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Moroni looked to the ceiling and scoffed. “You read too fast.”

Ulysses reached for the single holotape. He could feel Moroni’s eyes on him, following the movement. He paused only a moment before picking it up. When he looked back to Moroni, the courier stood with his shoulders hunched and glaring off to the side.

“What will I find on this, Moroni?”

Moroni hunched his shoulders further and mumbled a short answer.

“Moroni.”

“Goodbye!” he burst, cheeks reddening with either embarrassment or anger. “It was a goodbye. I thought-- I wasn’t sure I was coming back.” By the end, the volume of his voice lowered to a mumble once more. 

“It...” he hesitated. Screwing up his face, he first cringed and then pouted. When he finally gathered up nerve Ulysses had never known him to lack, he met Ulysses’s eyes. “I don’t know how much it would have mattered to you, but I didn’t want to be another ghost in your past. I just-- I figured if I was going to die I owed it to you to say goodbye. To be buried.”

For a moment Ulysses struggled to name the rush of emotion welling in him. He recognized it, so familiar, something he felt so often towards Moroni when he was just Courier Six. Anger.

“You owe me nothing.”

Moroni shrunk back at the unexpected hostility.

Moroni thought too highly of himself, such arrogance, such a smug sense of superiority, to allow something so low to kill him. The Hoover Dam, the NCR, Caesar’s Legion, nothing so pedestrian as monuments of man would be what ended him. Realistic or not, Moroni’s ego refused to acknowledge the possibility.

Despite his anger, the venom in his voice, Moroni slunk further into the room, closer to Ulysses. Again, same as when he thought no deeper than a child, Moroni showed a guileless trust in someone who tried to kill him, set him up to fail in a ploy to kill hundreds.

Holotape clenched tight in his hand Ulysses raised it between them. “What good would this do me? The words of a deadman. What would your death have achieved?”

Annoyance flashed across his features. Standing up straighter, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin. Holding up his hand, he counted off on his fingers. “First of all, I’d be dead so that’s a big achievement there. Second, you just said I don’t owe you dick so I don’t owe you a fucking explanation. Third, fuck you. You’ve wanted me dead since I first stepped into the Mojave.”

“Yet you left me this message.”

Moroni spat Ulysses’s own words back at him. “ _Message isn’t important, meaning is_.”

“What is the meaning of it, Courier?” Ulysses demanded, harsh in both tone and sentiment. “What do you wish to tell me, taking your own life?”

At the word, the title, “Courier,” Moroni took an aggressive step forward, teeth bared and fists out as if ready to fight Ulysses unarmed, only to fall back a moment later. Ulysses’s question staggered him like a physical blow.

“What other reason would you,” Ulysses curled his lip in disgust, “mimic me? You’re no better than the White-Legs.”

Ulysses lied. There had been a time when Moroni did not understand. Back then, he would not have made the connection, would never have made the gesture. For as attached as Moroni had become to him, he never wished to honor him, never moved to worship. In the eyes of Moroni, there was no one better to be, but himself.

Moroni only did so now because he understood. He only did so now in recognition of what Ulysses had done for him. Or perhaps what Ulysses had done to him. Another thing Ulysses had once attributed to Moroni’s idiocy, his easy forgiveness. Now with the intelligence his own ignorance led him to, Moroni only smiled and shrugged when they spoke of the lonesome road he walked. As if Ulysses sent him on a quest as a gift instead of to a trial for punishment.

“Fuck you.”

“Moroni--”

“You want your fucking explanation, listen to the tape,” Moroni snapped. He flung his hands in the air in dismissal. “Or destroy it. I don’t give a fuck. I’m leaving.” Vibrating with anger, Moroni growled in frustration and whirled around, stomping out and flipping Ulysses off without looking back,

For a long time after, Ulysses stood in the quiet, holotape in hand, the answer for a question had hoped never to ask.

-

Ulysses didn’t follow Moroni, didn’t track him, or attempt to search him out. If Moroni wanted to speak he would return. Despite the implications of their earlier argument, Moroni would return. He was unable to let such things unfinished. Moroni did not bury the living. He beat the dead.

It was a lesson Ulysses’s should have learned.

Once more, Ulysses past crawled from the earth to find him. However, this Joshua Graham had not come from Ulysses’s history. Same as Vulpes, they came as part of Moroni’s present. At his arrival, boots in the dirt, an unfamiliar gait after the perfect stealth of Moroni, Ulysses rose from where he kept vigil, turning to face Graham.

Twisted scars and bandages hid his face, but the Malpais Legate never displayed his emotions through his countenance, always detached, dispassion from the slaughter he created. Ulysses did not need to see his expression.

Everything was in his eyes. They always read the same, an inferno of savagery. 

“I suppose hellfire would not burn a devil.”

“Your time is past due, dog of Caesar.” Graham spoke, his voice no more or less than what it had been as the Malpais Legate. 

For all the lies and self delusion, that much of what Graham said was true. Intent obvious, Graham reached for his gun, same as Ulysses moved for his.

The explosion of a gunshot reverberated through the air despite neither managing to touch their weapons. The bullet tore through his hand, ripping his fingers off, shredding bandage, bone, and flesh. Graham staggered two steps back before regaining composure, clutching what was left of his hand to his chest. A strangled grunt and a sharp hiss were the only vocal reactions from him.

Whatever pain he felt at the wound was dismissable compared to what drew his attention now. He looked beyond Ulysses, eyes that seared with hatred now burned with something greater, something all consuming.

“What did I tell you?” Moroni snarled, voice as vicious as a lash, “what did I _fucking_ tell you?” 

Ulysses did not look behind him to watch Moroni’s approach. As sure as the ground shook when a deathclaw stalked, he could feel Moroni draw close. The Divide seemed to respond to his temper, the little light visible fading to darkness and wind rising. The electricity, the storm Ulysses had come to associate with the Courier fell over them.

Ulysses bowed his head. There was nothing for him to say here, no action for him to take. Moroni walked his path here and the history he created followed.

“Courier, you always come to me, though never when expected.”

“My name’s ‘Moroni,’” he snapped. 

From his hip he fired twice more in the span of a second, shattering the cap of one knee and then the other. For all the willpower it took for him to survive being burned alive, to crawl from the canyon, to inspire a tribal nation, Graham fell to the ground, kneeling on the fractured remains of his knees. No amount of faith, no matter how zealous, could make a man bulletproof.

Arriving beside Ulysses, Moroni sucked a sharp breath from between his teeth, the sound of someone either preparing to pull a bullet from a wound or to scream. Under his breath he muttered, “motherfucker.” 

Ulysses could not help but look to him. The indignation and curses from less than an hour before, the whirling energy, had concentrated, leaving his form rigid and an expression of glum resolve.

Then, as suddenly as he stilled, Moroni went in motion once more. Without acknowledging him, Moroni stalked past Ulysses, one hand balled in a tight fist in his pocket and That Gun hanging loose in the other.

“What did I tell you?” Moroni barked as he approached Graham.

Graham did not answer. Chest heaving, blood from his hand drenching his clothes and blood from his knees soaking the dry earth, Graham kept his eyes trained on Moroni, never faltering, never blinking.

Moroni gestured with his gun. “Your hand. Then what?” He pointed his gun at the left knee. “Your knee. And then the other. Then what, Joshua?”

Taking his hand from his pocket, Moroni palmed the crown of Graham’s head. He dug his thumb into his forehead and forced his head back. 

“You once called me a messenger of death, so tell me, Joshua, what is it I deliver? What did I say?”

“Your words mean nothing when you know not what you promise. I did not come for you. Can you kill me, _Moroni_?”

“If you’re not here for me, than I suppose don’t need to think.” Moroni lifted his hand from Graham’s head and stepped back. He raised his gun, leveling it with Graham’s head.

Defiant until the end, Graham leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the barrel of the gun. “Do it.”

Dropping his aim six inches lower, Moroni fired. The bullet tore clean through Graham’s throat, severing the spine and ripping head from body. The momentum sent it rolling, a trial of blood and bandages after. Only when it came to a stop, blue eye still open and burning, looking right at him, did Moroni lower his weapon.

The body of the Burned Man collapsed to its side, sending dust into the air. The gunshot had long faded, but still Ulysses’s ears rung.

Very quietly, Moroni said, “I told him to stay away from me.”

“He did not know you would be here.”

“Obviously,” he snapped. 

Shoving his hand through his hair, Moroni let out a frustrated growl before whirling around to face Ulysses. He looked to him, face twisted in the same terrible pain of understanding as before. 

“I shouldn’t have said your name. I shouldn’t have--” He glanced away and laughed, a reflexive defense compared to what had once been honest amusement only months ago. “Fuck it. He knew what I meant. He knew the Divide was as much mine as New Vegas.”

Anticipating Ulysses’s response, Moroni cut him off. “Everything’s mine.” He tipped his head to the side, looking up at Ulysses with narrowed eyes and a sly smile spreading across his face. “It’s all mine and you know it.”

The mood of him, the tumultuous energy of wants and compulsions, and now thoughts, shifted rapidly. Once he had seemed unpredictable, but after years, Ulysses had become apt at reading the weather.

Smile still in place, Moroni shook his head. Digging around in his pants pocket, Moroni procured four bullets. He flipped the chamber of That Gun open and began to reload.

“It’s all such a hassle.”

“Why, Moroni?”

Moroni’s hands paused, and he flicked his eyes up to meet Ulysses’s. In an instant came the flash of comprehension, of quick judgement, discerning what Ulysses asked. Looking back to his task, Moroni snapped the chamber shut, holstered his weapon, and sighed.

“I…” He breathed deep and then let his shoulders slump. Head down, he sidled a little bit closer to Ulysses.

If only because it was the Courier, was Moroni, Ulysses gave in. Moroni turned to face the Divide, look out into rip in earth and time, a hole neither of them could escape. Or neither wished to leave, now that Ulysses had dragged him in. For so long Ulysses thought Moroni should be held accountable for the death and destruction wrought through his carelessness. Now that Ulysses had buried him under their history, he wondered why.

“Because I don’t do well alone,” Moroni muttered, “I don’t do well alone. I tried to make a--I don’t know, a family? A place to belong?”

A home.

”But now, with these thoughts, with.” His voice broke off and he drew a shaky breath. Then came another laugh he didn’t mean. “These thoughts. These realizations. Arcade, Cass, Veronica, they didn’t know what to do with me. They don’t know what I am let alone who I am.” 

“And Joshua. You were right. You’re always right.” For the second time that day, Moroni quoted him. He lowered his voice in a mocking imitation of him. “‘Graham’s predilection is not for you, but to your devotion and your aptitude for violence. Once one of those falters, he will forsake you.’”

Ulysses let out a quiet laugh.

Pleased at his amusement, Moroni flashed him a smile. Then he looked down to the ground, scuffing his boot against the loose earth and sending gravel over the same cliffside he shoved Vulpes down months ago.

“I never understood what the hell you were saying, but I remembered all of it.” He laughed softly.

The genuine humor, a fondness after all the bitterness spewed before eased the tightness in Ulysses’s chest he had not realized was there

“You should have been a poet,” Moroni muttered. He scrunched up his face. “I met a poet named Jerry in the Great Khans, you know.”

“You mentioned.”

“Absolute trash compared to you,” Moroni tried to evade the question Ulysses could not ignore.

“Moroni.”

“Hey, Ulysses, do you ever think about doing it again? Walking the Divide. Maybe we should do it together, instead of, you know, you watching me like a fucking creep.”

“Leave the throne of your fledgling kingdom empty for so long?”

“Empire,” Moroni corrected, pointing at him for emphasis. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “New Vegas will be fine without me for a little. I don’t really want it anyway. I just didn’t want any one of those cocksuckers to have it.”

The holotape, what would have been Moroni’s final message to him, weighed heavy and warm in his breast pocket. Courier to courier, it belonged to him now.

Two couriers stood at the Divide. Behind them the wind dragged dirt and ash over the still bleeding body of Joshua Graham, the Burned Man. Another thing Courier Six conquered that Caesar could not. Moroni jerked his head in the direction of the Hopeville silo. When he turned away, Ulysses followed. 

Neither of them looked back.

-

_“Tell me, Moroni, do you think what you’ve done is righteous? If you do not intend to rule, why make it yours?”_

_“Beats roulette.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Voila 1. ready as I'm going to spend time making it. It's been fun and frustrating. glad it's done. 2. once more, reiterate my love for ulysses. 3. for those curious, "Moroni" is the name of both the prophet-warrior in the Book of Mormon and the angel who delivered the golden plates to Joseph Smith. The word "angel" translates from the Greek "angelos" meaning "messenger." Apropos for a courier, don't you think? 4. thanks for reading

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. It's the Finale. 1. For the sake of drama and plot, my notes will be at the end and a bit more brief than previous installments in the series. 2. First of four chapters. Depending on the response I might include a bonus chapter/epilogue. 3. I intend for each of the first three chapters to be more intense than the last, or at least more build up. They should go up within 3-5 days of each other. 4. Thanks for reading, lads.


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